


Pick Your Poison

by TanninTele



Series: Pick Your Poison [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, Crime, Criminal AU, Drugging, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Minor Scene from Spy (2015), Murder, Poisoning, Pre-Slash, Rather than a Dark Lord, Tom is a crime lord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 04:03:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12148218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanninTele/pseuds/TanninTele
Summary: In a world with no magic, Harry Potter is dragged along to galas and events to serve as a pretty face beside his schmoozing Uncle Vernon. Tonight's gala promised to be as miserable as the last - until Harry notices a member of the Minister's secret police slipping poison into the glass of Thomas Riddle; leader of an underground criminal operation.Thrown into a world of politics, assassination attempts and devastatingly handsome aristocrats, Harry must decide to fight for what's right . . . or succumb to his fatal attraction.





	1. The Bloodhound

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd. 
> 
> Trigger warnings:  
> Mentions of forced, underaged prostitution.  
> Drugging/Poisoning.  
> Graphic death in chapter two.

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**The Bloodhound**

When the Mason's car pulled up to Number Four, Privet Drive, Harry was begrudgingly impressed. It was sleek, black and clearly affluent, something that would draw the eye of every gossip-mongering house-wife on the street. As per social niceties, Harry and his uncle waited for Mason's chauffeur to come to the door. Vernon's stomach was tucked into a tight grey suit, a maroon-striped tie clashing horrifically with the red, excited flush to his cheeks. The man was dressed to impress, his golden cufflinks glinting in the low lamp light. 

Harry leaned back against the wall, uncomfortable in the deadened silence of his childhood home. Years ago, the house would have been filled with the anxious bustling of Petunia and the annoyed whines of Dudley. Though he certainly didn't miss their apathetic and cruel personalities, Harry missed the sense of normality. 

With a nervous fidget, Vernon swivelled around to face a decorative mirror. Licking his palms, he smoothed back a few greying strands of his comb over. 

Vernon met Harry's gaze in the reflection, lip curling. Harry had long, dark hair the very color and texture of crow feathers. It went down to his ears, framing a face adorned with jade-green eyes, narrow cheeks and an ugly scar just above his right eye. He had pale, faintly freckled skin, a blatant reminder of his mother's ginger status. Vernon didn't hit him much in the face anymore - his associates liked Harry's features too much for that. 

"I'm warning you now boy," Vernon wagged a sausage-like finger. "No _funny_ business or you're out of that room and back into the cupboard. You'll stay out of the way, only speak only when spoken too, and if Mister Mason or any of his associates request _time_ with you, you go without question. Is that understood?" 

Stomach clenching with hate and shame, Harry murmured. "Yes sir."

"If it wasn't for Mister Mason's fondness for your tight arse, I wouldn't be wasting my time with you at all," the man grumbled, just as the doorknock clanked thrice. His back straightened, a false smile stretching across mottled cheeks.  Harry released a short breath and tried to flatten his hair. He was dressed in loose trousers and a hand-me-down blazer, the sleeves stretching far past his wrists. They were hand-me-downs from Dudley's closet. Vernon had picked out the outfit, wanting Harry to at least  _look_ respectable. 

Vernon opened the door. A nondescript man in black inclined his head politely, gesturing towards the car. "Your ride awaits, Mister Dursley and . . . guest," he rumbled. 

Harry locked the door behind him, feeling dreadful about the night ahead.

This wasn't the first gala or dinner Vernon had dragged him along to. It started when he was about twelve and he'd met the Masons for the first time. 

Vernon worked in a drill company that specialized in unscrupulous methods of business and trade. Long before Dudley's accident and Petunia's descent into depression, Vernon invited the Masons over for dinner, hoping to impress the wealthy businessman. Petunia had made a pudding and Dudley had practiced saying  _"'May I take your coats, Mister and Missus Mason?'"_ in a suitably pompous voice.

Harry was delegated to dishwasher duty and subjected to Vernon's horrible Japanese golfer jokes all evening. He had felt the uncomfortable burn of a beady gaze on his backside but didn't give it much thought. He was an oddity to most people. Harry Evans-Potter; that strange, quiet, waif-like orphan child with too-large clothes and too-bright eyes. 

Hands still damp and dishwater staining his shirt, Harry went to throw out the rubbish. Mister Mason, too, excused himself 'for a smoke'. Hefting the rubbish into the bin, Harry was dwarfed by the Mason's large, imposing shadow.  _"You must be so grateful to your Aunt and Uncle for taking you in . . . "_  Lips brushed against his outer ear.  _"If you want Vernon to get that promotion, I suggest you go on your knees,"_ His voice echoed in his nightmares. Harry struggled, but Mason was deceptively strong.  _"That's a good boy."_

This went on for several dinners, until Vernon caught onto Mister Mason's perversion. As far as Vernon was concerned, as long as heavy checks continued to be slipped into his bank account, the continued abuse of his nephew was perfectly alright. Harry always dreaded being carted along to visit Mister Mason and Vernon's other  _friends._  He forced himself to stare into those gold-toothed smiles, avoiding the leering eyes and bald heads. He endured the lingering hands on his lower back and the deep voices asking Vernon if they could _'borrow'_ Harry for a moment. 

Stomach rolling in disgust, Harry would lower his eyes and led into a dark hall. As his throat burned or his arse was stretched, Harry would close his eyes and imagine he was anywhere else in the world. Someplace with magic, far-off and fantastical, where he could be with someone who loved him. 

As far as Harry knew, tonight was just another night. 

* * *

Schmoozing was one of Harry’s least favorite occupations. Vernon was a natural, with his capability to spot old money with the merest glance. Thankfully, the man was preoccupied, in deep conversation with one of Mason's friends about the gold standard.

The man, Mister Diggory, was accompanied by a woman he introduced as his fiancée; a trim, pale women that looked young enough to be his daughter. She was of Asian descent, and needless to say, Vernon's same-old racist jokes hadn't gone over well. On her third glass of chardonnay, the woman's eyes were glazed over and fixated on the chandelier. Harry could understand the sentiment. Several feet away, he sat boredly on a stool, swirling his non-alcoholic cider in it's crystal glass. Mason's driver had brought them to a posh casino, it's rooms bustling with finely-dressed statesmen, brokers, militant men and their wives. 

The bar was stocked with liquor, the clear, golden and red liquids served in tall flutes. A rowdy crowd beside Harry was building up quite the tab, and the barkeeps looked keen to toss them out. Harry noted a back room where gamblers tested their luck against a smirking, dark-skinned dealer, the man skillfully shuffling his deck. The cards were but a blur as they passed from hand to hand.

"How'd you like to test your hand at poker, my friend?" Vernon clapped the back of his companion. With a bit of drink in him, the man was already flushed, his tongue looser and his moustache frayed. 

Mason's friend split a cocky grin. "Ah, Vernon. You've found my one vice. I daresay that dealer could be  _convinced_  into giving us a fair chance."

Harry frowned into his drink. 'Fair' wasn't a word he'd use.  

By the unimpressed look of the dealer, the man agreed. Vernon and co. reluctantly sat back to watch the current players. 

Harry debated slipping away into the crowd. It was clear his services weren't needed - Mister Mason was busy with a dark-haired man a few seats away, in an area warded by velvet ropes. They sat in plush chairs, a tray of hors d'oeuvre between them. Despite the accommodations, Mason appeared distressed. Perhaps it had something to do with the guarded armistice of men in black surrounding him. 

Mason tugged at his collar and mumbled something beneath his breath. Though Harry couldn't read lips, it was clear the businessman would rather not be having this conversation. 

The boy idly ran his finger around the rim of his glass, watching as the slimy, balding man shrink into his seat. Wearing a suit of deep, foreboding red, his companion spoke in little more than a whisper, his eyes narrowed dangerously. There was a pause in the room's cacophony, and Harry caught a snippet of Mason's trembling interuption.

" . . . but I spoke to Thicknesse only a few weeks ago, he never mentioned any interest in running - " 

"Interests change." The other man spoke shortly, his voice a low purr. "That is not the point. Scrimgeour must not continue in his endeavors, and Thicknesse is our only option. He's very popular amongst the aristocrats - something to do with old money." Warning bells rang in Harry's head.

Scrimgeour was their current Prime Minister, a man devoted to law enforcement and national security. He was well-liked by the populace, but not so much by the small minority of criminals that thrived on slipping beneath the Ministry's radar. 

Mister Mason was a builder, not a politician, however. He supplied Grunnings with goods and materials - imported illegally from out of country and smuggled along with some uncommon drugs, but nothing that hadn't been done before. As far as Harry knew, Mason's only other extracurriculars were fanatically supporting his alma-mater's rugby team and, of course, indulging in other sweaty pastimes.  Clearly Mason was in deeper shit than Harry thought.

_Fantastic,_ Harry took a sip of his cider.  _Perhaps he'll be arrested._ But then, if Mason went down, Vernon and Grunnings would go tumbling after. And as much as Harry hated his uncle, he hated being punished for Vernon's failures even more. 

Harry was snapped from these thoughts as Mason was dismissed. The businessman lifted himself heavily from his chair. He accidentally met Harry's eyes before quickly looking away, chagrined. Craning his neck, Mason spotted Vernon's head amongst the poker players and hustled away. 

Harry couldn't help but linger on the other man, who was pensively tapping his long fingers against the armrest. With a twitch of his hand, he ordered a drink from a pretty, dark-skinned girl, the purple uniform stunning on her healthy figure. She made a visible, almost comical effort to school her expression into a coy obsequiousness. "Of course, Mister Riddle." The man gave her a charming smile and she rushed off to fetch his drink.

Harry had noticed the girl hovering around the strange man all night, perhaps trying - and failing - to hide her attraction.  From what Harry could see, Mister Riddle  _was_ very handsome.  Harry wasn't exposed to many Adonis-like creatures in his reluctant participation of pederasty. Vernon's 'friends' were usually overweight, overconfident and unable to talk their trophy wives into bed; so they looked to other means.

Harry was slightly uncomfortable with his own fleeting attraction to this dangerous stranger and tampered it down, finishing off his glass. As he looked for something else to distract him, Harry notice the dark-skinned attendant absentmindedly placing a glass on the bar top. 

Too fast for Harry to process, another man stepped forward and tipped a vial of clear liquid into the drink. A satisfied smirk on his lips, he melted back into the crowd, dark eyes glinting. 

Harry choked on his drink, horror rushing through him as the waitress returned. Balancing the cup on a tray, she delivered it to Mister Riddle, her smile faintly menacing in the dark light. Riddle took it with a grateful nod, swirling the drink in it's glass. The black-haired boy slid to his feet and struggled to part the crowd. Just as he was about the enter the velvet ropes, a large figure moved to block him.

"This is a restricted area," the bodyguard grunted. He had the width of a rugby player and the belly of a whale. Harry watched the man flex his arms beneath his tight suit jacket. 

"I - I work for Grunnings," Harry lied. "Mason sent me to deliver a message," The man was dubious. Meanwhile, Riddle was bringing the glass to his lips. "Goddamnit . . . Sir!" He attempted to lunge forward. A large arm snaked around his middle, tugging him back. "Let _go!_ Sir, Mister Riddle, someone's tampered with your drink!" 

Riddle stilled, swivelling around to stare at the disheveled, flushing boy. He slowly lowered his cup and stared into the glass. His nose twitched above it. There was a long, aching silence before he finally spoke. "Release the boy, Goyle."

The bodyguard reluctantly pulled away, letting the boy stumbled forward. Riddle watched the boy right himself. He gestured to the seat across from him. "Sit down, please." Harry shakily sat, sensing the heavy gaze of Goyle and the others. They were tensed like wildcats, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of trouble. "What is your name, boy?" 

"H - Harry. Harry . . . Evans. sir," 

"You may call me Tom. I apologize on behalf of my associate for his rough handling," Riddle said lowly. Harry felt miniscule under Riddle's dark stare.

The man's blue eyes were clouded with curiosity, suspicion, and something . . . gentle. To be honest, it was hard to describe Thomas Riddle as 'soft' no matter the thread count of his suit. His hair was a sleek brown and perfectly coiffed, accentuating his high cheekbones and aristocratic features. Riddle was younger than Harry predicted, perhaps in his forties or even late thirties. He had that suave, timeless look many of his stature strived for. This was a strange - but not entirely unpleasant - juxtaposition to the ill-favored company Riddle kept. 

"Now what was this about . . . tampering?" His smooth voice gained a dangerous edge. 

Harry swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to articulate. "Er, yes," he mumbled. "Just before you were served, a man mixed something into it. A clear liquid. He looked . . . smug."

Riddle's nostrils flared, the only outward sign of turmoil. "Interesting," he said flatly. "Could you point the man out?" 

Forcing himself to look away, Harry's brow furrowed as he scanned the crowd. "He had long, dark hair and was wearing all black. I think he left that way." 

Fingers clenched the armrest. "Did he have a rather prominent nose?" At Harry's nod, the man snapped. "Fenrir!" 

A hulking guard stepped forward. He had stringy silver hair and golden eyes. The handle of his cane was carved with the head of a wolf. Around his wrists and twining up his neck were silvery, puckered scars. "Yes, Mister Riddle?" The man bared his teeth and Harry jolted. Fenrir's incisors were whittled into sharp, sparkling points. 

"Will that description be enough? If so, I suggest moving swift." 

Fenrir nodded, a determined smirk on his face. The man moved surprisingly swift despite his dead leg. 

"We call Greyback our bloodhound," Riddle said slyly, moving to stand. A sudden crash was heard from the outer hall, followed by a woman's startled scream. "Would you accompany me to identify the suspect?" 

It wasn't meant as a request.

* * *

**_To be continued. . ._ **

**_In_ The Prince**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character Notes:
> 
> Though it's not specified, I've named the Casino 'The Elixir' after a booth listed at The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. The full name is 'Eternelle's Elixir of Refreshment', which - what with Tom's requested drink being titled the 'Elixir of Life' - I thought was pertinent. 
> 
> Listed 'Death Eaters':  
> Mason - a wealthy businessman with connections to the middle-class voter  
> Goyle - one of Tom's bodyguards. Known for his brawn and trigger-happy attitude.  
> Fenrir - known for his ability to track down and capture targets. Leader of the insidious gang, 'the Snatchers'.  
> Macnair - Tom's lead interrogator.  
> Bellatrix - Known for her beauty and sadism.  
> Lucius - The brain to Crabbe and Goyle's brawn.  
> Peter - Sent to collect Karkaroff. Unpredictably swift and wily.  
> Karkaroff - Weak-willed coward, on the run.  
> Stan - An innocent chauffeur, talkative, but loyal.  
> Rabastan and Avery - Quiet, but highly dangerous members of Tom's guard. 
> 
> I've imagined the poker dealer to resemble Blaise Zabini, with a shrewd eye for manipulation and deception. Also, if you notice my description, there's another employee in the Casino that will be important later.


	2. The Prince

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**The Prince**

"Severus Prince." Riddle said with a dark purr. "We meet again." 

He stepped into the dim light of the alley, his red suit appearing the exact hue of blood. Harry lingered nervously behind, staring at the man brought to his knees. That was him - the assassin. Harry was sure of it. He didn't look so smug now with Fenrir's large hands holding him down. There was a gun pointed to his head, the barrel pressed cruelly against a bleeding wound. 

"It's  _Snape,"_ the man said through clenched teeth. 

"You will always be Prince to me, dear boy," Riddle smiled. "I knew your mother in school - I even supported her when she dropped out to raise  _you."_ Severus blinked. "Of course, I thought she was a rather talented woman and should have remained in school, but she's about as stubborn as you are, it seems." 

"She's dead, you foul creature," Severus growled. "And you would be too, if you'd drank that _é_ _lixir-de-vie."_

"Elixir of life, yes?" Riddle said with amusement. "Rather ironic." 

"Fuck you." The man spat, a chunk of spittle splattering at Riddle's shoes. The bodyguards tensed, Fenrir yanking Severus' head back by his long, greasy hair. The veins in his neck pulsed. "You act like you  _know_ me, Riddle - like I owe you some favor." 

Riddle sneered. "Who do you think bought your childhood home? Who funded your extensive schooling? Who paid the expenses for your mother's funeral? Not your penniless, drunkard of a father, for certain." 

Severus breathed heavily through his nose. "You - you killed Lily," Harry jerked with surprise. That was his mother's name. "And that's something that can never been repaid." 

The elder man waved a dismissive hand. "It was her husband who wronged me, Severus. When she stood against me, I offered her mercy, the chance to  _live -_ she could've ran away with her young child and made a new life. She chose wrong." 

Chest jerking, Severus seemed to be holding back a sob. "Albus told me - " 

"Albus is wrong about many things. You should not have been so foolish to listen to him." Tom said this with the utmost neutrality. 

"I've been foolish quite a bit, lately," the other admitted freely. 

Harry was unsure what to think of the situation. The conversation had descended into a calm, Tom's voice smooth and calming. 

"You have two choices here, young Prince," Riddle went down on one knee to stare into Severus' dark eyes. "The first is detainment. For you, I will assign Macnair and Bellatrix as my interrogators. I'm certain they are very excited to re-acquaint themselves with you," a flinch rolled through Severus' gaunt figure. Tom clenched Severus' chin, fingers tightening around the skin.

"You will be tortured for hours on end, brought to the brink of death only to be revived in order to experience the whole ordeal once more. The pain will not be monotonous and tolerable - no, it will be acute and so, very, horrendous. Enough so that even a composed man such as yourself will soon crumble, lips spilling both blood and the classified information that I've sought after for years. I will watch you crack under the pressure with little mercy." 

Harry fought a gasp. 

"Or?" Severus croaked.  

Riddle silently held out a hand. A man wearing velvet gloves, his hair a burning shade of bleached white, carefully placed the glass flute into Tom's grasp. The clear liquid inside appeared innocuous, but Harry could only imagine the deadly poison inside. 

"Befallen by your own sword," Tom mused. "Brave, perhaps? Cowardice? Depends on who you ask. But no matter. Hopefully, it will be a swift death. It is only due to my fondness for your mother that I offer it."  

The potion-maker swallowed, sharp Adam's apple bobbing. "I will not betray Albus," he said quietly. "Even if he has manipulated me like one of his chess pieces - I - I am a loyal man."

"So be it," Riddle acknowledged, handing over the drink. Fenrir released Severus' hair, moving back to stand amongst the shadows. Severus lifted a trembling hand, staring down at the liquid with the expression of a man at the gallows. 

"For my mother," the man blurted. "I will tell you this for free. Albus is intent on killing you and anyone who dares align themselves with your cause. He will protect Scrimgeour with the full force of the Order, and will see my death as a gauntlet being thrown. If you repent, perhaps the Order will go easy on you. If not - "

"I appreciate the warning, Severus," Riddle said grimly. "But this war has been going long before you were even born. I regret your participation in it, but just like Lily made her choice - so have you." 

Severus inclined his head and took in a deep breath. With that, he brought the flute to his lips. Harry stepped forward, suddenly not-so-certain he wanted to witness the death of this man. "Riddle . . . "  

Even as he swallowed, Severus' gaze snapped up, taking in the sight of this small boy, eyes the shade of fresh spring grass. "Lily?" he murmured.

But his words were cut off by a sudden choke. Glass shattered as his hands flew to his throat, the skin sizzling. He collapsed onto his back, gasping out desperate breaths, blood and bile caking his fingers. It was horrible and disturbing, watching him writhe silently on the ground, his pupils blown wide. His life ended with a last gasp of breath, and all that remained of his throat was a hollow hole. 

Harry gagged, disgust flooding him. He heaved into a corner, the bile tasting of rotten apple. Riddle stood, turning toward his savior in time to watch Harry collapse in a dead faint into his own vomit.

"Oh, dear," Riddle murmured, hearing Harry's skull crack against the stone. "Is there a chance he won't remember this?" he asked of Lucius, who seemed paler than usual. 

The aristocrat made a delicate noise of vague doubt, silver eyes fixated on the dead body of his old friend. 

* * *

Harry came to slowly, sensations and thoughts arriving gradually through his stupor. The air tasted like cologne and liquor. Cushioned beneath his head was a soft bundle of fabric. He opened his eyes and hovering above him was Riddle. The man's lips were pressed tightly. 

"How . . . how long was I out?" he rasped, wiping his mouth. 

"Long enough for me to be concerned." Riddle said lowly. His suit jacket was off, revealing a tight black dress-shirt that hugged his figure far too pleasingly. Harry supposed there could be worse sights to wake up to. "You look a bit peaky. Have you eaten?" 

Harry shook his head, black hair fluttering. "I don't think I'd have kept it down, even if I had. That was . . . gruesome." It was only response he could find. Severus' body was gone, leaving only a dark space where the blood had soaked into the stone. 

Riddle grimaced. "Far more gruesome than I expected from him." 

"You still let him drink it," Harry accused, gasping when the words fled his mouth. The bodyguards towered over him, expressions smooth, but with a hint of warning. 

"Severus made his own choice," is all Riddle replied with. "Come, up you get." Harry allowed himself to be helped up, leaning heavily against the bodyguard that grabbed his elbow. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to keep quiet about the events that just occurred. Will you have a problem with this?"  

Harry flinched. "I . . . no one would believe me if I told them." 

Tom smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Good. Shall I escort you back to the party? Oh - and by the way," Tom turned toward a small, mousy man, whose eyes darted up. "Karkaroff was supposed to be watching my drinks tonight. You know what to do." The man gave a single, slow nod. 

Harry allowed himself to be led into a storage facility, through a long hall and back to the party room. The sudden influx of noise and the press of people caused Harry's breath to quicken. How could he go back to normal - catering to Vernon's friends and mourning the loss of his Aunt and Cousin in the lonesomeness of his bedroom - after watching a man dissolve his own throat? 

 _"Boy!"_ Vernon's dark voice carried. The large man forced his way through the crowd, seemingly not noticing the tall bureaucrat accompanying his nephew. Behind him was Mason, who froze at the sight of Riddle. "We've been looking for you. Mister Mason has requested your presence for the evening . . . to help him relax," Vernon's grin was vile. He yanked at Harry's wrist.

The contact caused Harry to flinch. "Yes, Uncle Vernon." 

Fast as a viper, Tom's hand shot out to grasp Harry's slim shoulder. "Vernon, is it?" he asked with feigned politeness. "Vernon . . . Dursley?" Tom glanced at Mason, who nodded jerkily. "The director of Grunnings! Yes, I believe Mason has mentioned you." 

"Yes," Vernon said snootily, grip falling away. "You are?"

"Thomas Riddle," Vernon's mouth fell open. "And this charming young man is your nephew?" Gleaming with humor, blue eyes surveyed the slim, pixie-like Harry and his portly uncle. "I see no resemblance." 

"He's . . . he's my late wive's nephew," Vernon shot a bewildered glance at Mason. "Has Harry been bothering you? If so, we will happily take him off your hands." 

"Harry's been exact opposite of a bother," Tom smiled, thinking quickly. "I hope you don't mind, but I had hoped to take him to dinner. Perhaps he will accompany me the entire weekend, if all goes well." The statement seemed pleasant enough, but it was made clear that if Vernon  _did_ mind, his night would be anything but. Tom turned to the clammy and suddenly silent Mason. "I _do_ apologize for the inconvenience, dear friend, but perhaps - since your evening has been made clear - you could begin that campaign I required, hm?" 

"Y - yes, Tom," Mason stammered. "Of course." 

Vernon didn't look too saddened by the loss of his nephew's company. His eyes were fixated on Tom's hand, still possessively clenching Harry's shoulder. A golden ring glinted on his pinky, a sign of wealth, as far as Vernon was concerned.

The man smirked. "Just make sure you're back by Monday . . .  _Harry."_  

* * *

It was the second time Harry found himself in a car that night. 

The limousine was lavish and infinitely more comfortable than Mason's car - perhaps because the company was better. Tom and Harry were alone, save the chauffeur, and Tom was _tsking_ at Harry's attire. For good reason; the back of his jacket was stained with vomit. 

"It looks like you rolled out of a barn, child," the man said. "Have you tried brushing your hair?"

"Of course I have. It was ineffective." 

Tom laughed. "Perhaps a bit of glue will hold it down. As for your suit, I think I shall have Lucius fetch an outfit from his son's closet. Draco is about your size, perhaps a bit taller." Riddle misread Harry's horrified expression. "Do not worry, the Malfoys are very stylish. You should be able to trust them, in this, at least." Tom knocked at the tinted window separating them and the driver. "Stanley?" 

"Er, yes, sir?" the driver said, with a faint lisp. Harry saw through the rearview mirror that Stan was a weedy, pock-marked man, only a bit older than Harry. 

"Radio Lucius, if you will. See if he's willing to fetch me -" 

"I'm, I'm sorry, sir," the man winced. "I think Malfoy's already taken leave. He got a call from his wife, or some'fink." 

Tom frowned. "Who took his place? Avery?" Stan nodded. "Honestly, I do wish they would inform me of these things. Where are the others? Is that Rabastan on our tail?" 

"Nah, I think that's Goyle." Stan glanced through a mirror. "He ain't so good a driver. 'Bastan and the others are up ahead."

Riddle considered this for a second. "Is Pettigrew with Goyle?" 

Stan had to check over the radio, a rasping voice responding with slight irritation. "Yeah, Peter's on." 

"Peter," Tom spoke loudly. "Have Goyle stop by the manor. In my closet, there should be a freshly-laundered Armani suit, a shade of dark grey, hanging over the dresser. Chose a green tie. I will also require some dress shoes, size - " Tom's eyes darted down. "Oh, about 42? Yes?"

Harry nodded, eyes wide. 

"Are . . . are they for the boy?" Peter's voice cracked. "You really don't - " 

"You really don't want to finish that sentence, Pettigrew," Tom said sharply. "You're on thin ice enough, as it is. Karkaroff was your responsibility and he got away. If you fail me again, there will be no second chances. Do what I ask, and be quick about it. Understood?" 

Peter's response was but a squeak, and the radio line cut. Tom leaned back, satisfied. "You . . . didn't need to do that," Harry said quietly, tugging at a stray thread in his jacket. "I appreciate it, really, but - " 

Riddle lifted a hand, lips twitching. "No thanks necessary. Just your agreement to burn that suit the next chance we have." 

Harry looked at him fearfully. "This is my uncle's suit. I can't just - " 

"It was only a joke," Tom soothed. "Now, tell me. How does such a riveting creature as yourself end up with a relative like Dursley?"  

This time, Harry laughed weakly. "You flatter me," he reverted to old methods of charm and compliance, beat into him over years of interacting with flirtatious older men. "My parents died when I was very young. I was supposed to go to my godfather, but he, er, found himself incarcerated for attempted murder on a friend of theirs. My aunt took me in, raising me with her son, who was only a year older than me." 

"Was?"  

"Y - yes. When we were about fifteen, he broke into Vernon's gun cabinet and was showing off to some friends," Harry winced. "A bullet ricocheted off some playground equipment and struck him in the forehead. He . . . he was dead in an instant." By the dead tone of Harry's voice, Tom suspected any show of condolence would be rejected.

"My aunt fell into a deep depression. She couldn't cook, couldn't clean - and Vernon wasn't the most sympathetic of husbands. He threw himself into work and began drinking heavier than ever before. It was all I could do to make sure they both ate full meals and the house didn't fall into squalor." 

Blue eyes narrowed. "You were only a child, and you were playing the adult." 

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "I didn't have much of a childhood to begin with. Anyways, despite my efforts, Petunia got worse. She wouldn't leave Dudley's room, not even to bathe," he took a shaky breath. "I got home from school one day and heard something from Dudley's bedroom. All of his toys- the electronic pets, his video-games, his Walkman - had been turned on, filling the room with endless chatter. His clothes had been piled into a makeshift bed with his teddy-bear for a pillow. Petunia was sleeping on top. Or, I thought she was sleeping, at first. Then I realized her dress was covered in blood. Beside her was Vernon's razor, and clenched in her bloody hands was a picture of her son." 

"Sometimes, I think - if it had been me that died, instead of Dudley, she would've been happy. I hated my aunt. She was a cruel, thoughtless woman that provided only the bare minimum for me, and let my uncle - " Harry's voice cut off with a strangled noise. "D-despite that . . . she'd been a good mum. He had been her whole world. She loved Dudley more than anything, and when he died, she shattered.

"I don't wish something like that upon even my worst enemy."  

The silence afterwards was deafening. 

* * *

**_To be continued. . ._ **

**_In_ The Infidel**


	3. The Infidel

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**The Infidel**

By the time he arrived at his manor, the man was no longer able to compose himself. He'd made up a silly excuse about his wife and left the casino as swiftly as possible. He couldn't stay with that group of mismatched criminals for any longer, not after . . . Severus. 

After being dropped off at the front gate, he slipped into the entrance hall, standing utterly still for a few, long minutes.

The ambiance of Malfoy Manor was entirely resplendent. Moonlight streamed through the halls, shining off the silver fixtures and marble floor. It was almost deathly quiet, the tick of a grandfather clock echoing. 

Lucius finally allowed himself to crumble, placing a hand on a wall to steady himself. He couldn't get the image of Severus out of his head. From the bowed head of dark hair to those fiercely glaring, intelligent eyes. Severus hadn't changed much over the years. He was still thin, rough around the edges, and his ability to hold a grudge was just as strong. 

Severus, however, hadn't recognized Lucius. Perhaps that was a blessing. 

When they were in school, Lucius had short, dirty-blonde hair and a large zit on his cheek. Despite their age difference, Severus had excelled in school, enough so that he'd been taking Year Five courses by his third year. They took arithmetic together - both competing to be top of the class. 

The other students had not been fond of being usurped by that greasy, peasant boy. James Potter was one of them - he was rich, popular and athletic - and had only got into the academy by way of his father's reputation.

Severus _earned_ his way in through a scholarship. 

Lucius was a prefect, and in his cursory after-hour survey of the halls, had found Severus bruised and bloodied in the bathroom.

Severus' father had been particularly distraught over his son's overt intelligence and had given him an improper farewell gift that consisted of both his belt and his fists. The Malfoy scion had been sympathetic (subject to the occasional belting from his war-hero father, himself) and patched Severus up to the best of his ability. 

They remained friends until Lucius' graduation, after which Severus had been invited to Lucius' wedding.

The man had not appeared until the late reception, wearing all black and his expression solemn. _"You look like you've just come from a funeral, old friend,"_ Lucius remembered saying, ever-so slightly inebriated. 

 _"I have,"_ Severus responded quietly. _"My mother has passed."_  Lucius quickly regretted his hasty comment, inviting Severus in for a night-cap. Severus denied.  _"I've only come to give my congratulations. Narcissa is a lovely woman._ _Though her family leaves much to desire."_

Lucius couldn't help but agree.  _"Narcissa has long ago distanced herself from the likes of Sirius Black; we haven't even invited him to the wedding. Please, Severus, just stay for the evening - "_

 _"I really mustn't. There are . . . there are some things I need to do."_ If Lucius had been sober, he would have recognized the grim determination on Severus' face for what it was. All the blonde did was slap Severus on the back and wish him well, watching Severus disappear into the bushes. 

Weeks later, on his honeymoon, Lucius read about the murder of a Cokeworth man named Tobias Snape. The cause of death was poison - a particularly painful variant of cyanide, if Lucius remembered correctly - and the very first suspect brought in for questioning had been Tobias' son. Severus Snape; an apothecarian with a grudge.   

That was the last Lucius heard of his old friend - but Severus had, apparently, struck a deal with the police force. Albus Dumbledore, head of Law Enforcement under the new Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour, took special interest in the apothecarian. The Minister's not-so secret police needed men like Severus with 'hidden talents'. His ability to create potent, undetectable drugs was nearly unheard of. Severus' truth serum was utilized in interrogations, and it was said he even made a potion that would mimic death. 

Severus proved a lethal assassin, the only exception being his attempt on Thomas Riddle. The fact he got so close to killing Riddle amazed Lucius. The man would have been a strong ally and spy - but Severus had made his decision. Lucius was consoled by the fact Severus could have died worse deaths. 

Let it not be said Thomas Riddle wasn't a merciful leader.

For some reason, Lucius was reminded of a night long ago. After a tiring day of work, brandy had loosened Tom's tongue enough for the usually stoic crime lord to recite a story.  

Nearly seveteen years ago, the notorious lawman James Potter - incidently Severus' childhood bully - had captured and incarcerated the family Lestrange, who were under Riddle's protection. Bellatrix had been pregnant at the time, but her treatment under Potter had led her to painfully miscarry. 

Riddle soon broke them out of jail, but Bellatrix was intent on revenge.

While the Lestranges attacked Potter's partners - Alice and Frank Longbottom - for standing by as Bellatrix was tortured into insanity, Riddle went after James Potter himself. In the dead of night, he trespassed their secure home and shot James straight through the heart. 

His wife, Lily Evans, wouldn't let Tom leave in peace. She attacked him with a kitchen knife, but was too ridden with sobs to do any damage. Admiring her tenacity, Tom offered her the chance to live . . . but Lily Evans was just as stubborn as her husband. He killed her mercilessly, her screams awakening their infant son from his slumber. 

Tom nearly killed the child. He had wanted to, the red haze of murder thrumming through his body, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the boy's eyes - green and tearful - or his tiny grasp on the crib's bars. The boy was completely helpless, completely innocent. 

The boy couldn't make a choice between life or death. So Tom chose for him. Harry Potter survived against all odds, and even Dumbledore was surprised.

They were all connected, somehow, even seventeen years later. Albus Dumbledore. Thomas Riddle. Severus Snape. James Potter. Lily Evans.

Harry . .  . Evans . . .

Lucius' brow puckered, remembering a flash of nervous green eyes and dark, messy hair. Familiar features. A familiar determination in his gaze.

No wonder the boy looked familiar.

His father had been a schoolmate of Lucius, after all. 

"Narcissa!" Lucius shouted, bounding up the marble staircase and into their bed quarters. The fireplace was roaring, his wife sitting up in bed, her long hair falling in waves around her face. A book fell from her hands. 

"Lucius?" the woman frowned at his panic. "Has something happened?" 

The man sat heavily at the end of the bed, grey eyes dark and grim. "There's been a great deal of changes, my love. Severus Snape has been killed," the woman blinked, before gasping in recognition. "And, more importantly, I need you to contact your r _ebellious_ niece and tell her . . . tell her Harry Potter has been compromised." 

Narcissa threw off her covers, revealing a silk night dress. She drew a robe around her body, tightening the rope firmly. "Riddle has found the boy?" 

"Worse. The boy has found Riddle."  

* * *

"How . . . how do I look?" 

Tom glanced up to find his companion looking an odd combination of a child playing dress-up and a handsome man on the cusp of adulthood. The suit really was too large. Tom almost begrudged that fact, having hoped the tailoring would flatter Harry's slim figure. 

It's sleeves were rolled and cuffed nearly three times. The jacket was lank around his torso, the hem of the pants pooling at his feet. Harry, however, wore it with confidence. It seemed that the rich, silky material and Tom's approving smirk were enough to instil some sense of self-worth in the poor boy.  "Like a proper consort," Tom said idly, earning a startled look from the boy. "Calm down, child. In this context, it means companion. Sit. Drink. Be merry." 

Harry grimaced, sitting in the cushioned dining chair. "I think I've had enough drink for tonight. That apple cider did not taste excellent coming back up." 

"Hush. That is not dinner conversation," the man, however, seemed amused. He pushed forward a glass. "Just an ice water for you, then. You're not of age yet, are you?" 

"'m seventeen," the boy muttered. "I'll be eighteen next month." 

"Hm. Still, we ought not take any chances. I've a premonition you're a lightweight," Tom hid his laugh behind a cup of steaming tea. Harry's pink-lipped gaping was quite endearing. 

The attendant was dressed in tasteful salmon-pink. Wrists decked with pearls, the hostess delivered their menus with a coy smile. Her hair was shiny black and held in an uncomfortably tight bun. "My name is Valentina Puddifoot," she spoke with a heavy Scottish accent, giving Tom a wink. "I'm the owner of this establishment, but I will be personally serving you tonight. Can I start you off with anything, dears?"  

Harry realized that he and Tom weren't the only couple sitting together. Madam Puddifoot's seemed to be the sort of establishment for romantic dates . . . and didn't that make his heart flutter.  

When their meal came a bit later, Harry was surprised by the burst of flavors in his mouth. "This is - this is amazing." 

"You've never had fine cuisine, Harry?" Tom swallowed his bite of steak. "Your uncle seems the sort to - how do I say this politely? -  _indulge_ in gourmet meals." 

A laugh was startled out of the boy. "I don't go out with him much, actually."

"No? Was tonight an anomaly, then?" 

"Well, he doesn't treat me to fine dining often, let's just say. He only brings me to events like that," he gestured vaguely. "If Mister Mason or his other _friends_ are there. They . . . they like me." 

Tom forced a smile, stamping down his suspicions. "It's hard not to." 

Harry ducked his head, hiding a blush. As the meal continued in silence - far more comfortable than in the car ride - Tom inspected his newest  _project._ There was potential with the boy, for certain. 

Despite the fainting spell and brief show of insolence, the boy seemed not uncomfortable with violence. From what Harry had revealed of his home life, Tom suspected Vernon Dursley wasn't the kindest of caregivers. Tom caught Harry's arm as the boy reached for his drink. He smiled disarmingly. "Pull up your sleeves. They're trailing into your meal." Harry nodded, rolling the sleeves over pale, thin wrists. Tom's gaze sharpened as he saw dark, finger-shaped smudges.  

Yet he still said nothing. He waited several moments before speaking. 

"When I was born," Tom began suddenly, setting his fork carefully onto it's napkin. "My mother was very ill. She'd been sickly since childhood; a hereditary disease. She was uneducated and unfed, leading her to be a highly unattractive woman. Her dowry had been pitiful, leaving her little prospects for marriage. Even so, she had fallen in love with a rich man that rode his horse by her house every day. Though they didn't converse much, she quickly fell for his charm and good looks. My father married her out of pity. He thought he could turn the skinny girl with bruises around her throat and her dirty hair falling out in clumps into a woman of status. 

"Everyone thought his choice to marry her was ridiculous - she must have tricked him, blackmailed him into wedding her," Tom sneered. "Rest assured, my mother was not smart enough for that. No, marrying poor Merope Gaunt was a tactical decision on my father's part. He could bathe her in scented soaps, dress her in gowns and pearls and teach her to read, but she was still just the daughter of a village joke.If he was caught _en flagrante_ with another woman, it would be acceptable. _'Who would want to sleep with an ugly bitch like Merope, anyways?'_

"Then -  _then -_ she became pregnant with me. My father was certain she was infertile; her body was simply too feeble, too abused to survive childbirth. She barely made it through labor, with only enough energy left to name me after her dismissive husband, Thomas, and her cruel, abusive father, Marvolo. She named me after her two banes." He shook his head. "What a namesake. But it was no matter. As I grew, it was made clear that I had no use except to continue the family line. I was largely ignored, left to my own devises, referred to as his 'bastard child' even though my parents were married. Outsiders could say I was raised with a silver-spoon in my mouth. I went to the finest academy and had everything I could ever want or need . . . but not the love of a parent.

"You and I, Harry, we are very similar," Tom tapped his nose. "Neglected, unwanted, forgotten. They told me I would amount to nothing, but I proved them wrong. I made something of myself. When my father died, I used his money to build an empire. I help poor, unfortunate souls by taking in the lonely and misused, giving them a new life - a new _purpose_.

"Fenrir Greyback, for example, was a dog-fighter that was too fond of his pups. He couldn't handle watching them be starved and beaten, forced into killing each other for _entertainment._ With my assistance, the cruel animal abusers were punished, and Fenrir now uses his rescue dogs to track down enemies of our own. 

"Lucius Malfoy came from old money. His father was a spy in the war for the French Army - the _Légion étrangère -_ and his mother was an actress. He was startlingly bright as a child and a talented young man, but he had one fault; he was in love. The Minister's secret police, the Order of the Phoenix, tried to contact Lucius and frame him for several criminal acts he had no part of. Lucius went to me for protection, and since then, his wife and son have been safe. And all I asked in return from Lucius was his loyalty." The man's voice had become a soft lull, the distressing things he described negated by the dim lighting and the scented candles. 

"Bellatrix Lestrange is Lucius' sister in law, a beautiful woman with a sadistic streak. We've been friends for a long time. Because of her connection to me, she and her family were kidnapped and tortured into near-insanity by the Order of Phoenix. She was injured to the point of miscarrying her unborn daughter. I initiated a break-out and personally assisted in Bellatrix finding her vengeance. I do not take kindly to murdering children." Tom fell silent, thinking of bright green eyes and a screaming, red-haired woman. "I still do not." 

The boy's eyes were glazed over, hand clenched tightly around his fork. "That's horrid," he whispered. "I knew Scrimgeour had a secret police - everyone knows it, they're in the news constantly - but I can't believe . . . "

"You ought not believe everything Rita Skeeter and her news column tells you," Tom shook his head. "And I doubt your Uncle has been exposing you to many politics, outside that involving his precious drill company." 

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Harry said tiredly, his appetite gone. 

Tom blinked, blue eyes softening. "I've told you, Harry. We're very similar. Both in our background, and in spirit. I believe you have potential for doing something great." 

"Great? Like you? You've . . . you've murdered a man. You have an entire gun-wielding gang at your beck and call. Just because you're all troubled and misunderstood, doesn't mean what you do is  _right."_

Riddle's voice was steady and patient. "I know you have seen many terrible things and have been unthinkably abused. You think you know right from wrong, but you  _must_ understand. What's good . . . isn't always what's  _right._ Sometimes, decisions have to be made in order to protect those you care about." 

Harry blinked slowly, feeling his breath falter. 

Tom let out a breath.  "It's no use talking sense into you like this, not when it's begun to kick in," he pushed his plate aside. "I promised your Uncle we would be spending the night together, but I have much to do and cannot have you underfoot. While I think your innocence endearing, it's also quite the hindrance." Tom tipped his head. "Trust me, this is a much kinder fate than the alternative."

"W - what?"  

"I must apologize, my love. Every sip you've taken of that water has slowly increased the concentration of a sleeping aid I asked Madam Puddifoot to put in your drink." Harry's head jerked, betrayal flashing in those bright irises. He looked around desperately for help. Tom leaned in to whisper conspiratorially.

"Don't worry, Valentina and her patrons know how to keep a secret. She's one of those contacts I was telling you about. The poor woman used to live in a house of domestic abuse, until she killed her husband in self-defense with a kitchen knife. She was nearly incarcerated for second-degree murder, but I protected her from this, giving her a new life. Valentina seems to have found her passion." Harry dazedly looked at the woman, who was laughing with a group of tittering waitresses. "Even though she no longer believes in love, she's still willing to help others find the illusion." 

The word  _'love'_ ricocheted in Harry's mind. In the candlelight, Tom's eyes looked bright and beautiful, the shadows flickering over his handsome features. He looked . . . resplendent. 

"You . . . you know?" Harry slurred, bringing his head to the table. "You're very easy to like, too." 

Tom smiled indulgently. "Thank you, darling." 

"Don't make me regret it." 

Tom's laugh resembled a choir of angels, echoing and rich. A large hand brushed gently over his eye lids, closing them. The warm touch lingered. "Never." 

With that sweet, breathy whisper in his ear, Harry fell into a deep sleep. 

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **

**_In the next installment_ By the Throat **

**Author's Note:**

> Any glaring plot holes are likely to be filled in the next couple installments. If you have any comments or critques, I'd love to hear them.


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